


The Cosca Child

by anamatics



Series: And to the Crux of Memory [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/F, Gen, Italian Mafia, Organized Crime, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after her cousin Tito’s death, Angie Martinelli’s life is finally lookin’ like it’s on the up and up.  Her family isn’t really speaking to her, but they’re also not not speaking to her either. They all went to go see her in that film, at any rate. She’s been offered a second, more important part in a film shooting in February and her life feels as though it’s finally settling into a predictable sort of a routine.</p><p>Or at least it does until her uncle calls her up outta the blue and tells her that his granddaughter is missing. “Your girl, she works for the government, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tip-Off

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The Hustle.
> 
> Takes some liberties with the timeline and the whole Hydra-Leviathan-SSR&SHIELD thing.

The roar of the airplane engines is not enough to drown out the thud-thud-thud of blood rushing in Peggy Carter’s ears as her fingers fly over clips and straps, doubled back to and triple checked.  The chute should open without a hitch. She packed it herself back at base.  Satisfied, she turns to her escort, ensuring that her gun is secure and her secondary weapon is firmly clipped into place at her hip. “Rendezvous at oh-six-fifteen tomorrow?”

He nods, head bent close to hear her. His helmet isn’t buckled. She could point this out, but it isn’t worth it when she’s the one doing her a favor. “At the appointed place. The window’s small, ma’am, best not be tardy.”

Peggy shoots him a dark look. “If I am late, private, it is because I am dead.” She does not voice the other potential reasons for her tardiness; she does not need him to know anything about her beyond the mission at hand.  She’s just tagging along to get dropped off and picked up. He’s off to preform exercises over Prague. The captain has lit the signal; it’s time for her to go. “Lower the door.”

“You sure about this?” There’s doubt in his voice. He’s looking at her up and down, dressed though she is in combat fatigues and carrying a twenty kilo pack. There’s a skeptical downward pull to his lips that makes Peggy want to knock him out, just to prove she can. “You’re not carrying a reserve.”  His fingers close around the handle that will open the door. 

“We never carry reserves, private, too expensive.”  The door lowers, and she steps forward. The private looks worried.  She should have known better than to ask the Americans still stationed in Berlin for a lift. “Thanks for ride!” she calls, and takes a running leap.

The sensation of falling, the wind pressing against her face and her entire body feeling as though it’s weightless is one of the most wonderful in the world.  Peggy’s done this more times than she cares to count, and this time is no different.  Her chute opens; she lands well within the drop zone. Her knees dig into hard earth and snow and she crouches, hurriedly cutting the lines from her chute and rolling it into a wet bundle that she stuffs into her pack. 

Overhead the night sky is awash with hazy clouds. The plane is long gone.  She is alone.

She has less than six hours to meet her contact and get to the rendezvous point. Less than six hours to get to the bottom of this mysterious call to the middle of nowhere that everyone from Sousa to Howard told her was a bad idea.

“It doesn’t make any sense for them to arrange for this,” Howard protested. He flung all the paperwork into her hands that she’d encrypted from the Russian codes they intercepted that morning. “It’s old code!”

It is code that was used while Peggy was busy trying to save New York from Howard Stark and Leviathan. That’s why it’s so troubling. Contact can only mean a few things: someone’s turned traitor, it’s a trap, or someone wants a deal. Peggy checks her gun and hopes for the first.

Her jaw set, Peggy starts to trudge through the snow.  Her destination isn’t far, she was lucky she was able to drop so close. It is still possible for her to enter this country through traditional means. Ever since the war ended, Stalin has started to grow increasingly paranoid about his borders. Soviet influence is spreading everywhere, and while Peggy does not mind the great bear, she knows better than to try and tangle with the Red Army soldiers that linger along the Eastern Front.  

In the distance, a single pinprick of light, glowing warm and inviting, is just at the edge of her vision. 

Peggy feels a pang of longing at the pit of her stomach, thinking of home. It is January, and the cold cuts her to the bone.  She longs to be back in her warm bed, buried under blankets that Angie’s Nonna made before she passed. She longs to feel Angie breathing beside her, she longs for that warmth and their indefinable connection.

They’ve let it fester.

She’s always been one to take the bull by the horns, but this is one thing that Peggy does not wish to lead on. She gets enough of that from Howard pressuring her into taking command of their fledgling organization and severely cutting back on her field work, from the boys at work who understand that _she_ is the one in charge and that they should not question her.  No, Angie deserves to do this at her own pace. She’s scarred by her experiences as a girl growing up and into feelings that weren’t normal.

It’s an illness according to most people.  An illness Angie’s family must have tried to cure to get her so knotted up about what it means to love someone.

The snow is deeper here.  Drifts up to her knees that make Peggy’s breath come in labored clouds of steam before her. Her feet are too small for most standard-issue trekking boots and they don’t make them for women. She’s bought these out of her own pocket and they’re not meant for this kind of snow.  Still, she could not picture a jump with skis or snowshoes strapped to her back.  They would have to do.

The house is still as she approaches. A single oil lamp is slung over a hook outside the door.  They’re too far away from civilization to have electricity, any wires would have been cut during the war.  Peggy does not approach the door, but preforms a quick series of sweeps around the perimeter.

It is as silent as a tomb.

An owl hoots, long and forlorn, in the distance.

She’s crouched beside a tree, breath a thin mist before her, when she catches sight of movement in the house.  The form is tall, thin, a woman’s form that moves with the grace of a dancer. Peggy bites the inside of her cheek, knowing that this is probably a trap and that she’s going to go up to the door anyway.  The figure in the window bends before the fireplace, a poker in her hand. Peggy notes the weapon and pulls her gun out. She’s not about to get whacked on the head with a poker. 

Not just yet at any rate.

It is with the grace of too much time spent in the field that Peggy approaches the door and knocks the pre-determined sequence.  There’s a pause, Peggy shifts her weight back, prepared to spring backwards from the door should she end up encountering the poker.  Her gun is leveled at the door.

The door opens and she finds herself face to face with the business end of a shotgun. Beyond it is a woman with blonde hair and intense eyes.  They narrow. “They sent you?” she asks in Russian.

Peggy bits back a curse. She should have known who’d she’d encounter. She smiles her most insincere of smiles and replies in Russian. “It’s lovely to see you again, Dottie. I’m afraid I was the only one fool enough to come.”

Dottie Underwood – whose real name continues to elude Peggy– steps back into the house.  She doesn’t speak a word, but Peggy understands. It is cold out, there is a fire inside. They can kill each other just as easily indoors where they won’t get cold and wet. She steps forward once, tentatively. Dottie nods, and steps back again, shotgun never wavering. Peggy follows her and kicks the door shut behind her, pausing only to collect the lantern, gun still leveled on the Leviathan operative.

Inside the curtains are drawn and a fire is crackling merrily in the hearth that dominates the far wall of the house’s single room.  The Alpine conditions in January are enough to make the warmth feel like midsummer.  Dottie lowers the shotgun. “Sit down, Carter. We do not have much time.”

Using one arm, Peggy sets down the lantern and shrugs off her pack. It lands on the floor with a thunk of cold weather gear. Her crampons, she refuses to wear them, rattle as the rucksack tips over. “This is not very civil, pointing guns at each other.” She speaks in English, Dottie speaking Russian is unnerving.

“There is no time for civility in this war.”

“Then why reach out? I’m under shoot to kill orders for anyone in your organization.” 

Dottie pulls pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She looks at Peggy for a moment, and relaxes when Peggy holsters her gun. She leans the shotgun against one of the armchairs before the fire and bends to light her cigarette.  Peggy sits down, feet wet and aching. She is exhausted, she doesn’t think she’s slept in two days now. She’s glad she does not have to fight.

Well, just yet. She’s sure Dottie won’t let her go without some violence. Peggy is almost looking forward to it.

“There is a girl.” Smoke curls around Dottie’s head as she settles, picking up the shotgun and resting it across her lap. She takes another drag on the cigarette, her leg twitches. Her expression is troubled and she cannot or is choosing not to hide it. “A child, not more than two years old. She is being offered up to Leviathan as a potential operative.”

“Frankly I don’t care how your organization recruits.”

“This one is American. This one is being _sold._ ”

Peggy digs in her pants pocket for a cigarette. Dottie leans across and offers hers as a light, but Peggy knows better than to trust Russian spies with anything she’s going to be consuming. She shakes her head and bends, lighting it in the fire.  “Sold?” she sucks in smoke and feels the calming effect start to take her.  “Why would anyone sell a child?”

“My parents sold me.” Dottie shrugs. “That is not what is troubling. What is troubling is who is advocating for this child’s inclusion in the program.”  Dottie’s lips purse. “There is a third player in this war.”

Her eyes narrow and her hand clenches into a fist despite her best efforts to keep it still. They stole a future from her. “Hydra.” It comes out like a curse.

The monster that will never die.

“Mn.”

“Why come to me then?”

Tapping out her cigarette, Dottie studies Peggy’s face. After a moment, she takes another drag, exhales, and then leans forward. “I like a war where I know my enemy, where the sides are easily defined. Communist. Capitalist. American. Russian.  Hydra brings complication. Their enemies are the whole world and they want this child so that they may steal her away from us.  They want to use her for great ill against the entire world.”

Peggy knows of children like this. She knows what could happen if a Hydra-trained child like this were unleashed upon the world.  She swallows and leans forward, cigarette between two fingers and her elbows on her knees. “What can this girl do?”

“It is not what she can do, but rather what the mutation in her genetic code might allow her to do as she matures.  Surely you know of children like this?” 

Peggy nods, exhaling smoke. “The official position is that they do not exist.”

“And unofficially?”

“We’re monitoring them.”

“This one will slip through the cracks.”  Dottie’s smile is cruel now. “She would have even if she was not being offered up to the highest bidder.”

“Why?”

“Angie’s family has its fingers in many dirty pies, Carter, are you really surprised that they’d sink so low as to try and end the world on the back of a child?”


	2. The Soldier's Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight tw for implied corrective therapies used on homosexual women in the 40s/50s.

A telephone rings in the empty apartment, once, twice. On the other side of the door, Angie Martinelli is fumbling with her keys. She’s exhausted, dark circles under her eyes from a long rehearsal after an even longer shift, and the last thing she wants to be is rushed. Unfortunately for her the telephone has other plans for her tonight.

“Coming, coming,” she grumbles. She’s finally found the right key and slides it in to the door. She doesn’t stop to take off her coat or put down her purse and the groceries before she sweeps the hall telephone from the receiver. “Hello?”

The operator’s voice is smooth and disinterested. Angie remembers when she used to think that Peggy did this for a living. It sounds so utterly boring now. “I have a long distance call from Paris, will you accept the charges?”

“I um… sure.” Angie eases her purse form her aching shoulder and sets it and the grocery bag onto the floor. She doesn’t know anyone in Paris, but Peggy is out of town on business and she supposes that she could call home, even if she would never reverse the charges to Mr. Stark’s line. The line crackles for a moment and then a voice fills her ear, speaking rapidly in a language that Angie doesn’t speak. “Woah, woah, woah. Slow down, girl. I don’t speak French.”

There’s a pause. Angie starts to wiggle out of her coat. The voice shifts, the accent becoming more accessible. “Peggy Carter?”

“Nope. She’s outta town, I’m her roommate.” Angie twists the phone to her other ear, hating the little lie but know it was a necessary one if she wanted to stay alive. People like her who dared to be open were sent away, locked out of sight for society. Angie wasn’t going back there, not ever.

The woman on the other line lets out a curse in a language even more guttural and harsh than German. Angie knows some German, she’s spent enough time around Peggy to have picked a bit up from her phone conversations at all hours of the day and night. “I’m sorry?” she ventures. “I could take a message if you want.”

“Tell her that she’s right.” The voice is short, the English clipped and near-perfect. Why didn’t she just speak it in the first place? “The sale is going through the usual channels and that she needs to be careful.”

“Be careful of what?”

“Of people who aren’t who they say they are.”

“Oh… kay.”  Angie waits a moment longer and then the line clicks dead. She stands there for a long moment before she shakes herself and goes to the kitchen to collect notepad and paper. She writes the message down dutifully and sets it with the others she’s acquired for Peggy over the past few days she’s been away.

It’s been a long six months since Tito died. Angie can’t even think about the funeral without gettin’ choked up. She doesn’t miss his sorry ass, but she does miss having someone in the family that she could rely on to talk to her and come visit her at the L&L.

She needs to quit.

Angie’s actually been meaning to talk to Peggy about that for a few weeks now. Her role in The Ace had gotten her auditions. Just a handful, but one was with a promising director with a good bit of buzz. It was still a supporting role, she would be playing the sister, rather than the ingénue, but it was a start. That’s all Angie’s ever need: a start.

“You’ll have to change your name.” The casting supervisor had said, looking over her flimsy CV. He had a small office in the city, way up towards Harlem. It stank of cigarette smoke and bad cologne. “It’s too ethnic. Italians are bad for business.”

Angie closed her eyes and leaned forward for the cigarette she’d left smoking in the ashtray on the cluttered desk. She knew this day was coming. It was part of her grand plan for her future, and she had it right now to a science. No one did films under their real name these days. The big-wigs behind the business liked to keep their actors generic, down to their names. They wanted every-men that an entire country could relate to, not just a specific cluster of people.  Plus, even after the war, the public distrust in anyone who’d been on Jerry’s side couldn’t be shaken. They were still agents of the enemy, even if the government was more worried about the Soviets these days.

“Put down Martin,” she told him when he’d added that she’d gotten the part. She sucked on the cigarette and tried not to think of it as a part of her identity dying. This career was more important than the people who refused to speak to her after Peggy came with her to Tito’s funeral. It had to be. This was her chance, her break. She’d proven herself. “Close enough right?”

“It’s perfect, Ms. Martin.” The casting supervisor agreed. “You have the script; I’ll be sure to currier you any additional pages. You’ll be expected on set February Third.”

That date is drawing ever closer and Angie still hasn’t quit the L&L. There’s something holding her back, a fear of cutting all ties to her past, or maybe it’s just that she isn’t sure she can find steady work as an actress.  It’s a leap of faith and she needs to make sure that Peggy is square with it before she goes ahead and quits.

Besides, she likes the work. She has a collection of regulars who all did go and see her in The Ace. They all had questions about where she learned to shoot pool like that, and she got to regale them with stories of her dead cousin and how they’d learned to play together. She’s lying a little bit, but it’s the sort of lie that won’t get you sent to hell if you tell it.

Not that Angie isn’t going already.

Her feet ache as she sets a saucepan on the stove and draws a match down to light the burner. The gas clicks once, twice, and finally takes.  Angie waves the gas out and reaches for the can opener.  It’s just soup tonight. She supposes she could make a grilled cheese, but she’s utterly exhausted and there were new pages delivered this morning.  All she wants to do is sleep, curled around Peggy’s pillow.

-

Angie is just finishing rinsing out her bowl when there’s a knock on the door.  It’s late enough that the presence alarms her, even if Peggy keeps odder hours than most. She’s out of town though, gone off to Europe for something clandestine and probably violent. Angie doesn’t want to think about it, so she doesn’t. Sometime a gal just shouldn’t ask, and Peggy respects that as much as Angie does.

Peggy won’t tell her what she’s up to most of the time. She’s startin’ to work with Mr. Stark and Mr. Fancy (Angie will never call him Jarvis, it sounds too, well butler-y for her tastes) and is always busy, down in Washington or pouring over maps in the study. Angie’s glad she’s gotten out of the not-phone company in a way. She doesn’t come home angry nearly as much. Or if she does, it is for entirely different reasons.

Right before Christmas, for instance, she came home battered and bruised, so exhausted she could scarce walk. Angie was just back from her first audition for this the part she still has yet to tell Peggy’s she’s landed. “Oh honey,” she said, seeing Peggy standing with one white knuckled hand wrapped around the telephone table by the front entrance, the other fiddling with the strap on her shoe. “You look like a meat grinder spat you out.”

“It might as well have,” Peggy grumbled.  She got her shoe off and hissed as she put weight on her ankle. “Howard and I are going to have a talk about any further experiments he does with robotics.”

“Robotics?” Angie laughed. “You’re pullin’ my leg, English.”

“The man is a genius, Angie; I assure you I am not.”  Peggy took a hesitant step forward and winced. She couldn’t put weight on her ankle at all. “I rolled my ankle tackling the thing.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

“No need, just a sprain.” Peggy smiled at her then. It was warm and comforting, a welcome reprieve from having to lie about her name and heritage all morning and deal with lousy customers all afternoon.  “I ought to strangle that man.”

“Oh don’t, he takes me to parties.”  Well, a party, but had been very nice. He’d been an utter gentleman about the whole thing.

Peggy’s hand clenched into a fist again and her expression turned dark. Her lips pressed into a thin line and she marched straight past Angie into the kitchen.  Her back was regulation straight and she didn’t limp. Angie stood in the hallway and wondered what she did wrong.

She knows now what happened. Howard Stark had put his foot in his mouth in the worst way after Peggy had saved him from nearly gettin’ decapitated by his own machine. He’d made a joke about Angie, a gentle one, but still a joke.  Peggy hadn’t reacted well to it at all.  She’d punched him square in the jaw and felt horribly guilty about it, but also alarmed at her reaction. Angie’s told Peggy again and again that she’s used to the jokes. Tito was the  _worst_ about them before he died and the rest of her family’s no better. She is a queer. Nothing is gonna change that.

“I wish you could love yourself,” Peggy had told her.

Angie’s still getting to the part where she can love Peggy. One thing at a time.

The door handle rattles and the knocking comes again. Angie stays quiet on the other side of the door for a long, drawn-out moment. She takes a step forward and peers through the peephole.

A man is standing on the other side of the door. He could use a shave, his chin’s all black and his hat is tucked under his arm.  A cigarette hangs from his lips.  Angie sucks in a deep breath.  His tie is loose and his jacket is rumpled.  She can see the gun tucked into his shoulder holster.

She takes a step back from the door and raises a shaky hand to cross herself. 

Her uncle is at her door.  Her uncle who doesn’t just run with the mob.  Her uncle who  _is_  the mob in her neighborhood is on her doorstep at close to eleven o’clock at night.

Oh this is very, very bad.

Angie takes a deep breath, whispers a prayer to prayer to St. Jude and slides the chain from the lock.  She forces on her cheeriest smile and swallows down any fear of recompense. She’s said her prayer, time to save herself.  “Uncle Arturo.”

“Angela.”  He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “Could I come in?”

Angie glances up and down the hallway. She steps back inside and closes the door. It’s all of three quick steps to the hall closet and a few seconds of rummaging to find a shoebox. Peggy likes to save them, says they’re good for photographs and organization.  She opens the door; her uncle is rubbing at the back of his neck and lookin’ mighty uncomfortable. “Put your gun in the box.” She holds it out to him. “Leave the box outside.”  She doesn’t want to sound like she’s bossin’ him around, but she’s going to make this situation as safe for her as she possibly can. And that means he cannot have a gun inside.

He takes the box and shrugs, unloading not one but two guns into the box, as well as a pen knife and his keys.  He sets the box beside the empty milk bottle and straightens up. He looks lost, Angie realizes, and anxious. He holds up his hands. “Satisfied?”

Swallowing a retort that is both rude and sure to get her slapped, Angie nods. She steps aside and lets him into the apartment. “Come into the kitchen, I’ll put the kettle on.”

“That English bird of yours got you actin’ like ‘em now, Angela?”

“It’s late, uncle. I don’t got decaf.”

The kitchen is bright and well lit; with plenty of sharp objects should this situation turn sour. Angie fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. “Why are you here?”

He sits at the kitchen table, his leg bouncin’ a mile a minute and lookin’ anywhere but Angie. Something is very, very wrong.  “Charlie is missin’.”

Angie’s hand, halfway to striking a match, stills.  She cuts off the gas and turns around.  “Charlie?”

“An’ Ellie.”

Her fingers fly up to cover her mouth and it’s not an act. Elda is her second cousin, her uncle’s granddaughter.  She’s not more than two years old. Tito was her godfather. Angie’s not allowed to have that role in her family.  “Missin’?”

He nods, looking world-weary and exhausted. “Gill told me ‘bout it this mornin’ an’ I’ve been tryin’ to find ‘em all day.” His shoulders droop. If Gilberto had told him this morning there was a good chance they’d been missing for a few days now. Gilly was terrified of his father, always had been, but his  _wife and daughter_  were  _missing_. Jesus, Mary an’ Joseph that boy could be stupid at times.  “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option. It’s too… unnatural.”  He scowls at Angie’s empty ring finger and seems to come into himself before he meets Angie’s gaze with an unflinching one. “But your girl, she works for the government right?”

The clock on the wall chimes. Angie counts. Eleven. She exhales. “She does, but she ain’t here.” She turns and clicks the gas back on, this time lighting the stove quickly.  “And she knows who you are.”

“Figured as much.”

“I had to be honest, Uncle Artie, I wasn’t ‘bout to drop her into the middle of this family without a warning.”

“She did us a favor once, Angie, I thought she might want to help.”

“She might help for Ellie.” Angie replies, getting down cups for tea and bags of the herbal blend Peggy likes to drink at night.  Her uncle lights a cigarette and Angie flinches at the sound of the match hissing to life. “An’ for Charlie. Maybe. If she did it wouldn’t be for you or Gilly.”

He sits back and watches her for a long moment.  The kettle whistles.

“They shoulda left you in there a little while longer. Maybe you would have come out normal.”

Angie closes her eyes against the wave of nausea that hits her hard in the stomach. He must know what he’s suggesting, he must. He must know what she’d had to do, over and over again. He must know how it’s damaged her forever.

That’s why he’s saying it. He wants to hurt her and cloak it in backhanded compassion. Angie bites the inside of her cheek and turns around. She deflects his hatred with a kind smile, a little sad, her voice becoming clipped and impersonal.  “You coulda helped pay for it then,” she answered. “Instead of my parents goin’ broke to do it.”

“Those were tough times, Angela.”

“You have no idea, Arturo.”

-

Elda is nineteen months old. Angie wasn’t invited to her christening. She wasn’t invited to Charlie’s shower either, but that’s somethin’ she’s honestly used to.  She talked to Charlie after her movie came out, they’d taken the baby to see a daytime showing. “You were brilliant,” Charlie gushed. “Even Gilly thought so. He got sad though, thinkin’ about Tito an’ how he taught you how to do all that, you know how close they were.”

“I do,” Angie replied.  She won’t bother correctin’ her family on the fact that she was the one who taught Tito how to do this. “He and I were close as well.”

“Gosh I didn’t even think about that, Angie, he was like your brother.”

Angie sighed. “Yeah, he was.” The one person in her family who cared for her despite everything wrong with her. “Look, Charlie, I gotta go.”

“Oh, right, of course. You should come ‘round for dinner some time… only—“ Charlie stopped herself, but the implication was clear. Leave her at home.  Come because you are family and pretend that you aren’t broken.

Angie wonders what will happen if Charlie finds out that her father in law, with his fingers in more pots than Angie cares to think about, has come to little queer Angela the family’s dirty secret to make use of her friend.

And she is just a friend. They sleep together but they don’t make love.  Angie doesn’t want to ruin it. It can’t be like Ruby or Betty, where she spent hours cryin’ afterwards trying to tell them about that place. Her mind still takes her back there sometimes, the nightmares twisting around her throat and choking the life from her.

Peggy’s there then, arms wrapping around her and soothing her despite the lateness of the hour. She might get two or three hours of sleep a night. She might not come home for  _days,_ but when Angie needs her, she’s always there.

Arturo leaves at close to three.  He’s told Angie everything he knows about Charlie and Ellie’s whereabouts. She’s taken dutiful notes and if Peggy does want to look into it she’ll have a good place to start. It is below Peggy’s paygrade though, and Angie’s stressed this to her uncle. He’s a worried father, though. Angie knows the type. He’s not going to take no for an answer.

She collapses into bed not long after she’s locked the door and reclaimed Peggy’s shoebox from the hall. She has to be up in three hours for the morning rush and she isn’t looking forward to it.

That night she does not dream.

She wakes up warm, a cocoon of blankets and arms around her, nestled in close with warm breath on her neck. It’s ten o’clock. Someone’s turned off the alarm.  Angie sits up in a panic, a string of curses at her lips.

Or rather, Angie  _tries_  to sit up in a panic, but a very strong arm holds her in place. “Don’t bother, I called in for you.” Peggy’s voice is husky with sleep. Angie turns to see her eyes are bleary and half-open. There are circles so dark under her eyes they look almost black and she has a long scratch on her cheek that’s just scabbing over. “Said you had a cold.”

“You’re the one who sounds like you have a cold, Pegs.” Angie turns into her, enjoying the warmth of her. She’s missed this. It’s only been four days, but gosh, she’s missed this. “When did you get in?”

Peggy burrows closer, her nose pressed into Angie’s hair. “Oh-five hundred. I think. With the time difference maybe four?”

“I love it when you talk military.” Angie really does, but it’s a bit of a joke between them and she’ll never, ever let on how much she wants to have Peggy in her uniform all pressed and starched with all those medals. It’ll be like V-Day all over again only this time she’ll actually get to kiss a soldier. “I wasn’t in bed much before that though.”

Sleepy fingers play with the lace at the shoulder of her nightgown. They drift to her hair, a kiss presses to her ear.

Angie freezes. It isn’t that she hasn’t with a gal before, she has, many times, but she doesn’t want to be exhausted the first time they do go through with it. She doesn’t want to have the memory of her uncle’s cruel smile as he told her they shoulda let her fester n that place for longer. Soon, she knows, she wants it so badly.

Peggy retreats, settling her cheek against Angie’s shoulder, fingers still playing in Angie’s hair. “Why?”

“My uncle Arturo stopped by.”

“Arturo?”

“The one who runs the gang of idiots Tito and Lorenzo liked to hang out with.”

“Ah.”  Peggy’s fingers wander to trace idle patterns on Angie’s shoulder, along her collarbone.  Angie’s breath hitches in her chest. “What did he want?”

So Angie starts at the beginning. The very beginning, her parents coming over from Italy in before the First World War, about them settlin’ down, about her father getting a good job and then losin’ it, about her ma fallin’ in with the wrong crowd at church and her uncle – Tito’s father – getting killed bootlegging. She tells Peggy how her other uncle died during the war and now it’s just her ma and Arturo and more cousins than she can count. They’re all lieutenants in his gang and Angie sort of hates them all. “Gilly married Charlie and Ellie is their kid.” Angie sucks in a breath as Peggy’s hand dips lower, dangerously lower. Her fingertips pluck at the fabric of Angie’s nightgown and pull. It’s calming, gentle touches, but it sets a fire to Angie that has been a slow burn for weeks now. 

Peggy hums at the back of her throat and asks an odd question. “Did your cousin ever mention anything odd about Ellie? Is she erm-  _different?_ ”

“What like me?” Angie furrows her brow but Peggy lets out a small laugh.

“Not like you, just different. Special.” Peggy pauses. “Maybe very much like you then.”

Angie nudges Peggy.  “Flatterer. There’s nothin’ off about Ellie, though. She’s just a normal toddler.”  She turns to meet Peggy’s eyes. “I’ve only ever seen her once. Why do you ask?”

Her fingers still, resting against heated flesh. “I went beyond the Iron Curtain two days ago. Eastern Czechoslovakia. Someone said something. It’s probably nothing.” Peggy presses her lips to the warm skin at Angie’ shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, darling.”

Angie shifts into the kiss, catching Peggy’s lips as her head moves up. They linger longer than two gals having a lie-in should.  Her nightgown ends up around her hips and she’s got Peggy on her back and the touch is enough to make Angie feel like she’s drowning.

Again it stops before it progresses further. Angie stares down at Peggy, who looks up at her with those adoring brown eyes half closed. The black circles under them down seem so evident now, with her lips kiss swollen and the scratch on her cheek kissed better with Angie’s reverent lips.

Sometimes she doesn’t know how she got so lucky. She gets off of Peggy and sits at the edge of the bed, shivering in the mid-morning chill. “Have you ever loved a woman before?”

Peggy sits up, her fingers twisting in the blanket. Her cheeks are flushed a deep red. “I went to an all girl’s school Angie, we aren’t that repressed in England.”

Angie looks over her shoulder and smiles slow and easy. “Would never know with that stiff upper lip of yours. Talking about stuff wouldn’t hurt ya, Pegs.”

“It’s a bad habit.” Peggy smiles weakly. “I’m working on it.”

And Angie leans in and kisses her again. Sometimes talking is entirely overrated. She's adult enough to admit it.


	3. The Anomalous Child

This is their pattern every time Peggy goes away for work: She’ll come back battered and bruised, looking half-starved. Peggy will invent some excuse to have Angie to herself all day. It isn’t anything nothing new, but something about this easy routine of cooking breakfast and returning missed telephone calls feels different.  It feels _settled_. This is what they’ve taken from each other; the peacefulness of this apartment is a little corner of heaven.

Angie only half pays-attention to conversations in three languages before she gives up, humming to herself and setting out plates on the table while the skillet is heating up for the eggs she’s whipped.

She looks forward to when it’s quiet. When Mr. Stark and Fancy aren’t around and when Peggy isn’t expected to save the world. The easy moments are what she likes best. They can talk about their days in vague, broad strokes then, and that’s enough for both of them.

This is a life she’s only ever dreamed of as a child, unfixable and broken; Tito’s laughing face pushing her up against a boy at school when she was more interested in lookin’ at his steady. “Kiss ‘im, kiss ‘im!” he urged. 

He started looking at her longer after Angie refused to do it. He broke the rules of confession to go running to her ma when Angie’d confided in her worries about herself to a priest.  He’d landed her in that place and refused to say sorry when she showed him her scars.

Tito’s dead now.

Angie’s hand slips on the whisk and she looks down to see it shaking. The guilt of what happened to her cousin wells up within her and she has to swallow down the urge to cry. They blame her for it. Her uncle didn’t say it in so many words, but the implication is there. Angie brought Peggy with her to Tito’s funeral.

Her mother still refuses to speak to her because of it.

She pours the eggs into the skillet and lets the steam as they hit the hot iron wash over her face. The steam centers her, breathing in hot air always does. It reminds her of the burn from back then, when she had to concentrate on being a lie. She got so good at it, lying still and taking it, not even crying when her world was crumbling, violated and miserable.

A low curse comes from across the room and Angie glances up. Peggy gives her an apologetic look, before continuing to speak. “Look, James, I really need those files as soon as possible. Courier them over if you have to. Yes. To my home. No, I don’t care if it isn’t protocol. It’s secure. Stark built the bloody security system.” She exhales, her nostrils flaring, and Angie leans on the counter, chin in her hand, watching.  This version of Peggy captivates her, the version of Peggy in control and dishing out orders like she’s back in France and jumping out of planes with Captain America. “And get me the number for the Paris safe house.” An exasperated sigh. “Yes, James. I will hold.”

“Who’s in Paris?”

Peggy softens, and her smile is one she reserves only for Angie. It’s enough to make a girl’s heart jump clean outta her chest. “An Austrian Operative from close to the Czech boarder. She’s in Paris now, but has connections all over the place. I needed her to look into—” she stops and lunges for a pen, discarded on the table. “Yes, okay James, I’m ready.”  Peggy copies down the number dutifully and Angie just shakes her head and goes back to the eggs.

“Anyone ever told ya not to bring work home?” she asks when Peggy hangs up the telephone.  The eggs are cooking quickly.

“I’m sure a little bird might have said something about it once or twice.”

“Well no more work until you eat. The eggs are ready.” Angie cuts off the gas.

“I really should call Paris back.” Peggy checks her watch. “We’re getting into the dinner hour.”

Angie gives her the same look that her ma used to give her when she was trying to avoid chores or dinner. The bite of becoming like the woman who told her to not bother coming home again after Tito’s funeral does not rest well in the pit of her stomach. The wave of bile that pushes into her throat thinkin’ about her ma at the back of the church, one long match still lit in her hand as she says prayers for Tito’s poor lost soul, is enough to make Angie falter in her step.

Peggy cannot know. Angie refuses to tell her. It will devastate her.

She thinks everything’s all peaches now when it’s anything but.

“Sit.” She says instead of anything she wants to blurt out. She can always hid behind good hospitality and a mothering instinct that certainly is learned and not natural. Her kind shouldn’t have children. “Eat. It can wait ten minutes.”

To her credit, Peggy sits. She tucks a napkin into her lap and crunches into an apple slice with gusto. Angie’s pretty sure she hasn’t eaten since she left. She outta strangle Stark for that and a myriad of other reasons. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Work has a habit of catching me blind.”

“I know.” Angie spoons eggs onto their plates and turns to collect the stack of toast she has warming in the oven.  “It gets me too.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well.” Angie sits down and picks up the pepper. “I need to quit the L&L.”

“Really?”  Peggy always eats as though she’s starving. Angie’s never asked her why, she’s sure there’s a reason for it, and it probably isn’t a good one.  She knows that Peggy’s got a history in battlefields and trenches. She wonders if she didn’t eat much back then and is trying to make up for it now. “Why?”

“The film is going to be big.”

Peggy looks across the table at Angie over her piece of toast. “Is this where I’m supposed to tell you not to count your chickens before they hatch?”

Angie shakes her head. “It isn’t that.” She glances down at her hand, at the unadorned finger on her left hand. “I just got a feelin’ is all. An’ besides, the cook doesn’t want any actresses workin’ once they make it. Says it’s bad for the customers.”

Rising to her feet, Peggy brushes past Angie to collect the coffee from the stove where Angie’d set it to percolate before she’d gotten in on the eggs. She brings it and two mugs back with her.  “Are you worried about what that means?”

There’s the weight at her neck. It presses into the place where her neck meets her back and it _aches._ She doesn’t care if she has to leave this city behind to make it big. She loves her family with all her heart.  Once they tried to fix her and she thanked them for it, now she knows better, but at the time she did not. Her uncle twisted his words around that conviction and promise of a cure, lording her otherness over her like it was something that should snuff out her life at any moment.

It would, though, if she wasn’t careful. One breath of queerness and her entire career goes up in flames.

Angie chews her eggs and toast and pretends that swallowing doesn’t make her feel like vomiting. “After my uncle came by last night, I’m not.” She may regret the words later, she may find herself begging Saint Peter to let her into heaven one day on account of those words, but Angie’s soul is already damned. There’s no point in worrying about the details now.  “They want me to change my name, Pegs.” She exhales. “Italians are bad for business.”

“Are you going to?”  Peggy passes Angie one of the mugs, steaming with freshly brewed coffee. “I think your name is beautiful.”

“It’s _ethnic._ ” Angie shakes her head. “I get it, I grew up here. People got long memories, Pegs. The war wasn’t that long ago and everyone remembers what Mussolini did.”

Peggy’s expression flashes dark for a moment. It’s just that, the little confirmations when Peggy’s mask slips, that say she was far more involved with the war than she’ll admit to Angie. She carries the weight of the world on those shoulders. “Well, I’m sure most Americans remember him strung up in the street too.”

They’d printed that picture on the front page of every newspaper in America.  They printed lies and hate about people like Angie for _years_ before it. Italians under surveillance, whole neighborhoods with curfews and rules restricting gatherings – limiting them to mass – it was all lies.

Once, when she was still at that place, a doctor had brought in a flyer.  He picked it up on his way into work, said he wanted her to see how disgusting society thought she was.  “You can be a good girl, though, can’t you?”

She’d swallowed down far more than curses that day. He wanted her to scream, he wanted her to act like he was hurting her, but instead she acted as though she loved what he did. She moved with it and fell into the scene. She was an _actress_ and she could cordon off her mind from what he did, pretend that this was just a rite of passage.

In a lot of ways, it was her ticket to stardom. She had to scream and cry and pretend to hate some man she’d never met for the first audition.

She’d breezed through it with flying colors.

“It’d just be for stage, anyway. Legally I would be Angela Martinelli.”  Angie rubs at the back of her wrist, not quite able to bring herself to meet Peggy’s intense gaze. “That’ll make my Ma happy. She’s always on me about how I’m loosin’ my culture. I can’t imagine—” Angie trails off, forgetting herself. She knows exactly what it would feel like if her mother refused to talk to her, to even acknowledge her existence.  Her mother lets her call still; she’ll accept it and she’ll listen to Angie for a few minutes before she’ll ask when Angie is getting married.

“Angie?”

Angie shakes her head. Peggy doesn’t have to know about that. “Sorry. I can’t imagine what it’d be like if she got all righteous on me ‘bout that.”

Over the lip of her coffee cup, Peggy’s eyes narrow, but thankfully she doesn’t push it.  Angie isn’t sure she can lie to Peggy just now.

She isn’t even sure that she wants to lie to Peggy ever again.

-

They’re about to go out for groceries when there’s a knock at the door.  The courier that Peggy requested has arrived, depositing three fat envelopes into Peggy’s arms and holding out a clipboard for her to sign.  She does so with some difficulty, eventually giving up and switching to her left hand to write.  He eyes it and Angie winces.  She always forgets that Peggy can change aspects of herself to adapt to any situation. 

“What are those?” Angie asks. She’s trailing after Peggy, her coat and gloves on as Peggy ferries them into the office. She leans against the doorframe as Peggy bends to open up the document safe hidden in the bottom drawer of her desk. “I’m sure that same little birdie told you that you needed to stay home for at least two days before you started to work again after jumpin’ out an airplane in Eastern Europe.”

Peggy’s smile is sweet, but tight-lipped.  “These aren’t for work; they’re for your uncle. I was thinking, before we did the shopping, that we could go talk to him?”

Angie pulls her coat sleeve down and twists her wrist up to check her watch. “It’d be tight on the train.”

“I called Mr. Jarvis.”

Her eyes narrow. “When?”

“While you were in the loo, I figured you wouldn’t mind avoiding the train for once.”

She sucks in a steadying breath.  The secret’s going to come out then. She might as well tell it now. Exhaling, Angie tugs her gloves off and jams them into her pockets. Anything to cover that her hands are shaking once more.  “About that, Pegs.”

Peggy spins the lock combination lock and twists it to the correct digits. It’s a date, seven-four-something Angie’s never managed to catch. “What about it?”

“Well, jus’ don’ expect a welcome reception, okay?”

Peggy’s hand stills on the dial. She turns to look up at Angie from where she’s bent by the drawer.  Her eyes are lined with exhaustion and dark circles, but her make up’s good enough to mask the worst of it.  Still, her expression is that of a woman scorned, a woman just discovered how terrible the world truly is, when Angie’s known that most her life.  “Why not?”

“Do I really got to explain it to you?” Angie fiddles with her gloves. Pulls them back out of her pockets and stares down at them.  “You remember what Ma was like at Tito’s funeral.”

“You told me she was startled, that you hadn’t told her you were bringing a plus one.” Peggy jams the files into the safe. She closes it and gets up to her feet. Her fingers close around Angie’s. “Angie you’re shaking.”

“’s nothing. Forget about it.” It comes out slurred.  Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

“How can I forget what you haven’t told me, Angie?”  Peggy’s fingers tilt Angie’s chin up and her eyes are hard, angry even.  “What happened? How can I fix this if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?”

“There ain’t anythin’ to tell, Pegs. Ma didn’ like that you were there. She and I had words about it. She tol’ me not to come home.” Angie shakes her head. Nothing is going to make Peggy understand this. Peggy isn’t wired to hate people for simply being. No, her hatred stems into something far deeper, a darkness within her that embraces the violence of the space she occupies. She is the law, she’s a fed, and yet she is not.  She won’t tell Angie exactly who she is, but Angie knows she’s important, she knows that she’s an investigator; she knows that she’s got influence and the ear of important people. 

Her hands clench into fists. She pulls away from Peggy and lets them hang at her sides. It hurts too much to look at Peggy. “It was a long time comin’ ‘onest.”

“Why has your uncle come to you for help then?” Peggy asks.  She’s retreated, keep a respectful distance.  Angie’s grateful that Peggy knows that in times like this space is important than physical comfort. “If your family wants nothing to do with you, why on earth would they ask you for aid?”

“Because of you!”  Angie wants to pull her hair out.  Peggy isn’t obtuse but she does not get it at times. She doesn’t understand the pressure of this family, how much they cut and take away from Angie just for the privilege of not losin’ any more of ‘em. “They don’t give a damn about a girl like me unless they can use me. Or use what I have. I’m a sinner, remember? Damned straight to hell.”

“I’ve been to hell,” Peggy says it without so much as blinking. “They’d never let you in.”

“Great, purgatory forever then.”

Peggy does step forward then, but she does not touch. “We don’t have to go. I’ll call Jarvis, we can just walk to the market.”

“No,” Angie meets Peggy’s gaze. “We shouldn’t. We should go because Ellie’s jus’ a baby and she’s missin’ and damn him, Gilly loves that kid. Uncle Artie wouldn’t’a come if he weren’t desperate. He’ll be expectin’ me to refuse and that’ll be the end of it with my family. I can’t lose ‘em.”

Peggy’s eyes are imploring. She doesn’t understand why Angie refuses to let go of people who hate her so much.  She’s an only child; Angie’s been able to wheedle that much out of her. She’s got no frame of reference for what it’s like to grow up with cousins like they’re brothers and sisters. Until Tito told, Angie had that. Now she just keeps up appearances and knows that they hate her.

Family though, family sticks together and she won’t let them drive her away any more than they want to actually do the driving. They occupy an odd space between those two extremes.

“I think it’s much bigger than that.” Peggy’s fingers cup her face and she leans in. Her lips are soft and gentle, and her eyes flutter closed as Angie stares straight again.  She can’t close her eyes.  If she closes her eyes this will all be a dream and she’ll wake up back there again, face pressed against pamphlets telling her she’s scum and hands on her where no man’s hands had any business bein’.

Men don’t kiss like Peggy Carter. Men don’t touch like her either.

Angie wants her uncle to meet Peggy. She wants to show him that she can find happiness on her terms, and that her family won’t dictate her future.

Peggy draws away, her teeth scraping against Angie’s lower lip. There’s a knock on the door, and sound of a key in the lock.  “You’re beautiful.” Peggy’s voice is a whisper as they spring apart. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

It is with a fond smile that Angie tugs her gloves back on.

-

Edwin Jarvis is an interesting figure in Angie’s life. He is, by all accounts, everything that she is not. He did what he had to do for love, and he paid the ultimate price for his actions. Peggy’s told her all about it, Angie thinks she finds it romantic, even if there is some tension between him and Peggy.

That comes from the events that resulted in them both being unceremoniously kicked out of the Griffith, but it runs deeper than that at times. There are lies there too. Peggy wears lies like armor, they keep her safe and set her apart from every other gal Angie’s ever called a friend. Mr. Fancy seems far better at tellin’ lies than he lets on, and for that Angie isn’t particularly inclined to trust him.

He’s seen through Angie’s lie, though, and has had naught to say about it. Angie takes that as a victory.

Lies are the currency of people like Angie and Peggy, but for entirely different reasons. Peggy lies because she has to keep the world safe; Angie just lies for herself and the good name of her family.

“Mr. Fancy,” Angie says to Jarvis when he holds the door open for her. “You really don’t need to do that.”

“Call it a habit, Ms. Martinelli, engrained in me from birth.”

Angie swings herself into the car. “You weren’t born to be in service.” She doesn’t understand the English obsession with cleanin’ up other people’s messes. Peggy does it for Mr. Stark all the time. Jarvis apparently does it as well. There’s a whole class of people over there that live to scoop other people’s shit.  It’s ridiculous.

“There are many different kinds of service, Angie.” Peggy lets herself into the passenger seat. There’s an amused smile playing at her lips. “There’s also a level of engrained politeness that you Americans lost somewhere during your armed revolt.”

“Shoulda dumped more than the tea in the harbor.” Angie mutters darkly. She says it mostly for the absolutely comical reactions that it gets out of both Peggy and Jarvis. Peggy puffs out her cheeks and tilts her nose up in the air, Jarvis looks mildly scandalized, in a reserved, English way.  Still, they all know it’s only foolin’. Good natured ribbin’ is how Angie gets by when she feels like she’s about to fall apart inside.  “I don’t know, Pegs, you’re way more American than most Americans.”

Peggy’s smile falters and Angie wonders if she’s hit on something that Peggy doesn’t wish to discuss. “Yes, well—” Peggy falters.

Jarvis quickly starts the car.

“Someone had to pick up after Captain America, right?” Angie continues as though nothin’s happened. She’s good like that. Barreling right on through and messin’ things up before she realizes what she’s doing.

“I wouldn’t want to step into his shoes.” Peggy’s eyes are straight ahead. “I’m far less of a pacifist than he was, at any rate.”

They fall silent, and Jarvis eaves his way through Midtown traffic towards the bridge and another conversation Angie doesn’t particularly feel like having.

-

Gilly lives in an apartment just outside of Redhook.  He and Charlene – Charlie – moved there after Gilly got home from the war. They’d been sweethearts before the war, and had gotten married in a hurry (much to Angie’s mother’s chagrin) before Gilly shipped out.  He wasn’t headin’ to the best of places either. Italians were an integral part of the society of the city, sure, but they weren’t in the army. They were grunts and foot soldiers. In a way, they were no better than the Japanese out west that they rounded up and sent island hopping. 

“We speak the language of the enemy,” Gilly had explained in a letter home. “But they’re cowards. They turn tail and run. It doesn’t much matter if we can talk to them or not.”

Angie likes to think that Gilly is her best cousin, after Tito, but Tito’s gone and the entire family isn’t speakin’ to her on account of it.

“Do you want me to park and come up with you?” Jarvis asks.

“If ya want.” Angie replies. “But Gilly can be difficult an’ I don’ want him being rude to you on account of your accent.”

“I have—” Peggy starts.

“They asked for you, English. I think they’d think I called the Feds if I showed up with more than one Brit in a suit.” Angie shakes her head. “We’ll be fine to get home, Mr. Fancy. You don’ need to worry.”

Jarvis glances over at Peggy, who shakes her head ever so slightly.  Angie hates that he won’t take her word for it. It’s a small pattern that she’s recognized. People defer to Peggy.  They let her guide them wordlessly and never question what she says.  It’s unnerving, coming from a gal who’s completely unused to men even listening to her. 

And the worst part is that she knows this is not real for Peggy. That the quiet deference she sees around Mr. Stark or Jarvis is an outlier in Peggy’s life.  That most of the people she works with think that she’s the sort of girl who was willin’ to sleep with soldiers to get ahead.

Angie doesn’t want to think about him. Not when she’s already feelin’ vulnerable.

“We should go up, the neighbors are startin’ to look,” Angie says. She points to where a few old ladies are peering through their curtains. “Cars this nice don’ end up here unless they’re lost.”

“I shall endeavor to drive quickly then.” Jarvis says. He nods to Peggy and gets back in the car. 

Angie leads Peggy to the door and slips the key that her uncle left with her into the lock. Gilly and Charlie’s apartment is on the third floor, overlooking the street. The stairwell is bitterly cold and Angie’s breath fogs as she leads Peggy up past half-frozen laundry and discarded trash. Angie’s face feels hot at the shame of standing here in this hallway surrounded by the poverty she always knew as a child, and knowing that this is a side of her that she’s never found cause or time to tell Peggy about what it was like when she was a child.  Before she realized she was broken, this was home, normal. A building where everyone was family. 

Gilly’s door is locked, and Angie knocks and steps back. She knows that she’s as likely to be greeted with a gun as a hug, it’s always hard to tell with her family.

She shifts from foot to foot.

“Is it always so cold in the walk up?” Peggy asks. She’s got her arms wrapped around herself.

Angie shrugs. She’s used to the cold.  “It’s jus’ bad ‘cause the windows out down there.” She gestures to the broken second floor window.  “I’m sure Gilly would’ve taped it up if this hadn’t happened.”

The door opens then, and Gilly steps out. His tie is loose around his neck and his beard’s at least two days old.  His eyes, when his gaze meets Angie’s, are red with crying.  “Angie,” he rasps.  “How the hell’d he get _you_ to come?”

“You gonna let me in, cuz?” Angie asks.  “It’s freezin’ out here.”

He steps aside and ushers them into the small apartment.  “Don’t usually get your kind here,” he mutters, locking the door.

Angie doesn’t like being locked in, especially not with a guy like Gilly, but she keeps her mouth shut.  She tugs off her gloves and tucks them into her pocket.  She smiles pleasantly at her cousin. “What,” she asks. “Girls?”

Gilly lets out a derisive snort. “Queers.”

It’s all Angie can do to keep from turning and leaving. Peggy gives him a sharp look and he does look chastised, but only just. It’s always only just with her family. There’s never quite enough of an apology to make it worth her while to keep listening.  Tito was the same way. It must be in their blood.

She bites back the insults that threaten to fly past her lips. Gilly is upset. His wife and daughter are missing. This isn’t the conversation they should be having. “Oh, Gilly, they’re everywhere.”

“Yeah, but at least they don’t advertise it.” Gilly bends and collects a cigarette from the pack on the kitchen table.  The apartment is small, the kitchen spills out into the living space.  The baby’s crib is tucked beside it. “Suppose you’re here about Charlene?”

“Charlene?” Peggy questions.

“Charlie, my wife. We all got mouthfuls for names in this family.” Gilly holds out his hand, a gentleman even if a rude one. “Gilberto Martinelli.”

Peggy takes it; the smile that flits across her lips looks almost predatory to Angie. It doesn’t reach her eyes, they’re as cold as they usually are around strangers. They were that way around Angie’s ma too. She realizes that it’s a lack of respect, and Angie wishes that Peggy didn’t have to know all of her family’s dirty secrets. “Peggy Carter.”

“English?” He asks. “Knew some of yours during the war. Good men. Good women.” He jams his hands into his trouser pockets and sucks on his cigarette.  “Charlie and Ellie are missin’. Ain’t nobody seen ‘em since Tuesday. Called Da about it, and I guess he called you? Before you ask, I was working the turn on the train down to Virginia. I wasn’t at home. She was supposed to look in on your Ma, actually.”

“Your da said as much,” Angie replies. “I haven’t talked to Ma.”

Gilly goes silent for a moment, as Peggy takes in the apartment.  Angie watches her move, her attention on the little details of the room.  She looks at the baby’s crib and surveys the unmade bed before moving into the kitchen. 

“I know you haven’t spoken to her in a while, Ang.” Gilly rubs at the back of his hair.  “She’s mighty proud of ya for that movie. Won’t shut up ‘bout how you’re gonna make it big.”

“Excuse me, Gilberto.” Peggy, perhaps sensing the disaster in Angie’s rising temper, interjects.

“Gilly’s fine, ma’am. The way Da tells it, I figure you outrank me an’ every soldier I know.”

“He’s probably correct,” Peggy answers, not even bothering to look evasive. “Fine, Gilly.” She bends and runs her hands down her skirt to smooth it. She’s looking underneath the crib. Angie bends to see what Peggy’s looking at and Peggy indicates a tangled collection of rocks and bits of twisted metal.  “Do you know what these are from?”

Gilly’s cigarette dips at his lip, and then tumbles down towards the floor.  Quick as he ever was playing stickball as a kid, he reaches out and grabs it. Peggy’s eyes narrow and Angie feels an unfamiliar twist of worry at the pit of her stomach. She’s seen Peggy do suspicious things and be plenty suspicious herself, but it’s never been so obvious that she thinks the story’s bunk before. Gilly is lying, and Angie doesn’t know why.  “Ellie likes to play with rocks.”

Peggy gets down on her knees and pulls the twisted mess of metal out into the light of the kitchen.  “This is sharp, Gilly.” She rubs her thumb along the edge of one exposed piece of metal. “Sharp enough to injure a child.”

“Christ, woman, you think I don’t know that? I have no idea how they got there.” Gilly turns and marches towards the closet by the door. He wrenches it open and produces a child’s coat.  “She comes home like this, all the time.  Look.”  He turns the coat over and rocks start to tumble from the pockets. They land on the table and ricochet off in every direction. 

Angie bends and picks the rock that rolls to her feet up.  “It’s jus’ a rock.”

“She’s a collector. Charlie’s tryin’ to break her of the habit.”

“She’s barely old enough to walk, Gilly,” Angie points out. “Do the rocks just, what, follow her home?”

His eyes grow fearful and he looks to Peggy.  She gets to her feet and brushes off her hands.  “Gilly, I think you need to be honest with me about who your daughter is.” She said. “Someone has taken her, and I think it’s because of these rocks.”

“They’re just rocks Pegs,” Angie says. She takes a cigarette from Gilly’s pack and sits down at the table.  “Kids do weird stuff.”

“Yeah, this one liked to shoot pool,” Gilly agrees.  “Rocks aren’t going to bring Ellie or Charlie back to me,” he adds sadly. “I worry she just took off.”

Peggy smiles reassuringly at him and gestures to the coat still clutched in his hands. “I think that if she’d done that, she would have taken her coat. Unless she’s got another one.”

Gilly looks down at the coat in his hands and Angie prays that he’s going to say she doesn’t.

“No,” he says at length. “This one’s been ‘er’s since Louisa’s kids outgrew it. We don’t have another.”

“Sit down, Gilly. I need you to tell me about your wife.”

 


	4. The Dutiful Wife

Gilly spins a clever tale, if Angie has anything to say about it. She’s known ‘im most of her life, but this is new. They’ve frozen her out of the family for so long now that some of this comes as new information. Angie’s hands clench into fists at her lap and she stares at the pile of rocks on the floor.

 _She likes rocks_.

“Charlie’s Ukrainian,” Gilly explains. “Second generation. Her parents came over in ’15, before it got bad and the Ottomans were lettin’ people out.” He exhales. “They were Jewish.”

“But she isn’t?” Peggy tilts her head to one side. Angie follows her gaze to the crucifix on the wall. Her family’s always been very Catholic. Angie doesn’t remember Charlie being Jewish. She doesn’t really know Charlie beyond a face and a name. She’s never really felt wanted enough to actually spit out the words required to start to build a relationship with her cousin’s wife.

“Nah, converted when we got married. She was convinced it was safer that way. I don’t think she could ever get Poland outta her head.” Gilly reaches shakily for a cigarette and lights it. He regards Peggy for a moment, before tilting his head to one side. Angie’s witnessed this particular conversation before; it clenches at her gut and makes her feel as though she’s done  _nothing_ with her life. “Were you there, after?”

Peggy says nothing, but her head dips down once.

Angie swallows. They locked people like her, people like Peggy, up in those camps too. And they didn’t let them out afterwards.

“Nasty business.” Gilly blows smoke out of his nose. Angie digs in her purse for something to do with her hands. Her fingers find a matchbook and cigarettes. She knows she shouldn’t, she’s got to quit – it isn’t good for her teeth.  It is the need to distract from the painful truths being revealed that drives her to strike the match and touch it to the end of the Lucky Stripe.  She focuses on the pull of smoke into her lungs and the coming wave of calm that hits her on the exhale.

The three room apartment is big enough to give the illusion of space, but still small enough to feel suffocating. Angie watches the smoke rise form the end of her cigarette and curl around electric fixture overhead. Its yellow glow bathes them all in a kind of serene light. They look dingy, dirty with the secrets they carry around with them. Angie puts the cigarette to her lips and pulls again. Already the haze of two cigarettes has settled over the room. With no child to be concerned about, there seems no need to open up a window and let the smoke out.

Peggy leans forward, her fingers tapping on the table. She says nothing, her attention fix on Gilly’s face. It’s like she’s darin’ him to tell her half-truths, Angie realizes. Peggy’s brown eyes are hard, the memories they hid behind that soulful color could peel paint. She wonders if that’s why they’ve lapsed into this long, shuddering pause.

The war carries bad memories with it for Peggy. She never talks about what exactly she  _did,_ but there are moments when she looks at Angie as though she’s a ghost from another time, laughing with a mirth that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s broken, some part of her, same as Angie is shattered inside. They’re plagued by the reminiscing. They’ve all been to the darkest pits of hell, no matter what Peggy says about it.

“Papa said he’d be over in twenty minutes,” Gilly says. He stubs out his cigarette as he gets to his feet. “Imagine you’ll wanna meet ‘im too?” He turns on the tap and sets the percolator underneath it to fill.

Angie leans forward from her place on the sofa to stub out her cigarette. “When did he say he’d be over, Gil?”

“’Bout twenty minutes ago.” He gives her the patented Martinelli half-assed smirk, a little sheepish, a little cocky.  It looks better on him than it’s ever done on Angie. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Perhaps we should just wait then.” Angie mutters.

At the sink, Gilly turns around. “You drink coffee, Miss Carter?”

“I can if pressed, Gilly,” Peggy replies. Her tone is carefully neutral and diplomatic. “Tell me, what did your wife think of your daughter’s collecting stones as she did?”

“She thought she was mighty young to be a collector. I never really thought much about it, you know? I was workin’ and Charlie was takin’ care of the kid. She just liked rocks. Always has. Charlie was constantly in a mood ‘bout how she’d catch Gilly with little pebbles in places where they had no business bein’.” Gilly looks exhausted. “We’d fight, you know. At first I thought she’d just packed up Ellie and her stuff an’ took the train down to Hoboken to see her folks without tellin’ me.”

“Does she do that often?” Peggy leans forward, her expression thoughtful.

“All couples fight, Miss Carter. We’re no different. She doesn’t like what I do, or what my Pa does. But she tolerates it fine. Jus’ needs some handlin’ when things get stressful.”

“Stressful?”

Angie closes her eyes. Stressful, in her family, means somebody’s on the lamb. Or somebody’s in jail. Or somebody’s dead. She grew up around it, and Peggy doesn’t know what it’s like. Charlie musta hated it if she and Gilly fought so much. “It means Uncle Artie was havin’ it would with?”

“The Irish.” Gilly shakes his head. “They’re pushing in on some of the unions and Pa don’t want that.”

“Christ, Gilly. No wonder she left.” Angie shakes her head. “This is probably just a misunderstanding.”

Peggy is silent, but the look on her face says she doesn’t think so. Angie sucks her lower lip into her mouth and watches the interplay of nothing drifting across Peggy’s face. Something is there, something that Angie doesn’t understand. Is this bigger than just her fool cousin and uncle?

She’s got half a mind to ask, but a sharp rap on the door pulls them from their conversation.  Gilly looks up, halfway through opening a fresh can of coffee. “Get that, Ang?” he gestures with the can opener.

“Sure.”  Angie gets to her feet and walks across the small apartment. She steps around the piles of rocks and checks the peep hole as she’s always been taught, careful to not let her shadow cross underneath the door and out into the hallway.  Her uncle is standing outside.  His overcoat is slung over one arm. Angie slides the chain from the door and lets him in, moving aside when he steps inside.

“What, no demand that I leave my piece outside this time?” His voice is gruff.

Gilly taps a spoon loudly on the side of the can. It rings like a gunshot.

“It ain’t my place,” Angie replies in an undertone.

He hands her his coat like she’s the maid. “Your girl here?” He passes her his hat as well.  Angie takes them and dumps them over the back of the sofa. She ain’t Gilly’s wife, and Charlie’s not here to play hostess. She sure as hell ain’t gonna hang up her awful uncle’s things in someone else’s house. 

“Yeah, Pegs, come meet my uncle.” Angie steps past him. Peggy’s staring at her with this look that is as icy as it is warm. Her lips are pulled into a tight frown and she’s smoothing her dress down as she stands. There’s hatred barely concealed behind Peggy’s eyes and the curling smile that blossoms on her lips is almost predatory. Angie wants to recoil away from that smile. It reminds her too much of the beast that lives within Peggy, the savage monster that Angie has just barely managed to forget. She’s seen Peggy in the heat of battle. The smile is always the same.

They’re standing, the pile of rocks that Gilly shook loose from Ellie’s coat between them. Artie is sizing up Peggy as she sizes him up as well.

This isn’t her Ma, this is her uncle, a known gangster. Peggy’s not going to be nice. She can see it in the curl of Peggy’s lip and the downward drawing of her eyebrows. Angie braces herself, hoping that there’s a détente before there’s any shouting. “I’m afraid, Mr. Martinelli, that I must insist that you leave any weapons outside, even if Angie is disinclined to enforce such a rule.”

“I ain’t carrying.” Artie says, hands on his hips.

Angie snorts. That’s bunk.

“There are three weapons on your person: a small handgun, probably a .22, at your ankle, a second, probably of a higher caliber, at your shoulder, and the switchblade in your pocket.” Peggy folds her arms over her chest, never blinking, never wavering. Gilly is boggling at her from the kitchen. “You can leave them by the door.”

Angie looks at her uncle, his red face a mask of rage. Peggy may have overstepped. There are excuses that race into her mind, bubbling, desperate to defuse the situation before it can get bad. She thinks Artie is angry until he throws his head back and laughs. “You’re good.” He bends and pulls a pistol from the brace at his ankle. “We’re gonna need that skill to find Ellie.”

“And Charlie,” Gilly calls from the kitchen. Peggy’s lips draw down into a frown that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears. Angie’s brow furrows, confused. Charlie is missin’ too, it makes sense that if they find one of ‘em, they’d find the other.

Gilly steps around the half-wall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. “Put ‘em in the mailbox Pa. He’s already come today, they’ll be left alone unless the Mandell kids are at it again.”

“That’d serve ‘em right, little pests.” Her uncle disappears outside for a moment. Angie sneaks a glance over to Peggy, and her smile is victorious. She’s played this game with men before. Artie isn’t the first and he won’t be the last.

It’s only when Artie sweeps back into the room and skirts around the pile of rocks from Elli’s jacket that the situation feels real. “So, Angie, this is your girl.”

Bile rises up in Angie’s throat. She has never had to confront this so publicly with her family before. She and Peggy aren’t really out and about. They don’t go to the clubs up in Harlem or down in the Village. They’ve gone to the park twice and to get ice cream three times. Peggy brought her roses on set after her first shoot in that film she did in August. That isn’t the same thing as standing before her extended family and actually saying yes, Peggy is her girl. She doesn’t want to own up to it, she’s afraid of what they might do.

Her uncle leans forward. “Arturo Martinelli.”

Peggy uncoils, and her expression softens. Angie exhales. Maybe this won’t be so bad. “Peggy Carter.”

“Short of Margaret?”

“Yes.”

Gilly’s setting mugs down on the table.  Outside the wind howls in off the river, the night has turned ghastly. Snow must be comin’, and they’ve already had so much. Angie moves back to sit across from Gilly at the kitchen table.  She takes a cigarette and lights it distractedly.

“Angie’s ma’s been talkin’ about what you did when Tito died.” Angie’s uncle spoons sugar into his coffee before he sits down opposite Angie. “Says you did us a real solid, taking care of Lorzeno’s goons.”

For a moment, Angie thinks that Peggy’s going to play dumb, but she shakes her head. “I did what was best for Angie.” She cradles her coffee to her lips, her elbows on the table. “Despite how the favor was received at his funeral.”

Artie leans back in his chair. “Well, we don’t much care for queers.” He says it like it means nothing, but Angie flinches and Peggy’s grip on the coffee mug goes white knuckled. Under the table, Angle lets her free hand rest on Peggy’s thigh.  The muscle there is tense, beneath the folds of her skirt.

“If you want help with this matter, and do not wish to involve law enforcement, you’ll mind your words.” Peggy’s expression is perfectly blank. “I will not be insulted while I risk my job helping a known gangster locate his kidnapped grandchild.”

He puts his hands up, and Angie relaxes. “Sorry, Miss Priss, jus’ tellin’ it like it is.”

“As am I, Mr. Martinelli.” Peggy replies.  She turns her attention back to Gilly, apparently content to ignore Angie’s uncle. “Tell me more about your wife.”

“Not much else to tell.” Gilly rubs at the back of his neck. “She doesn’t talk to many members of her family. They can’t stomach her marrying a goy, let alone convertin’.” He sighs. “She’s been real quiet lately. Spent a lot of time across the river, at the library there. Doin’ readin’ on something or another. I could never get a straight answer out of her as to what.”

“Did you mention the telegrams?” Angie’s uncle asks.

Gilly snaps his fingers. “Shoot no. She’s been gettin’ a lot of mail recently. Weird stuff from what I saw. All letters and numbers in no particular order. Ain’t been straight with me as to what it is either. I thought she was steppin’ out, but I don’t think so.”

Peggy sets her coffee cup down. “Did she keep the receipts?”

“That’s jus’ the thing, Miss Carter, she did but when I went to look for ‘em they’d gone. All of her papers were gone. Just vanished.”

“How odd.” Angie says.

Peggy shakes her head. “Not odd, telling.” She gets to her feet. The abruptness is shocking to Angie. “It’s been lovely to meet you both. I’ll be in touch. Angie, would you like to stay or come back with me?”

“Are you takin’ a cab?” Angie squints at the clock on the wall. There’s still a good half hour before their ride will consider returning. If he does at all. Angie’s still partial to taking a cab back. “’cause Mr. Fancy won’t be back for another half hour or so.”

“No, actually. I need to see someone on this side of the river. About those telegrams.” She bends, presses a kiss to Angie’s cheek and sweeps towards the door. Angie’s eyes flutter closed and she pretends she doesn’t hear Gilly’s sharp intake of breath. “I’ll be home late. Mr. Jarvis will make sure you get home alright.”

She’s gone, collecting her coat and out the door before Angie can say another word. Angie stares after her long after the door is firmly shut once more, her fingers twisting around the hem of her sweater.

“Is she always so abrupt?” Gilly asks. He sips his coffee noisily.

On the wall, the clock ticks.

“No,” Angie answers. She reaches for her coffee and takes a big gulp. It burns her throat. “She isn’t usually like this at all. It’s strange.”

“I thought she was invested in gettin’ Ellie back.” Her uncle has pulled a half-smoked cigar from his pocket. He’s chewing on it, not lighting it. Angie knows her family well enough to know that he’s thinking, hard. “I got no time for fool girls, Angela. Is she gonna help or not?”

This silence feels oppressive. The sort of painful pressure at Angie’s temples she can never push away. She exhales and puts her cigarette to her lips once more. “She’ll help, Uncle Artie. I just think she’ll do it in her way. She’s got a lot on her mind – and she’s got a startin’ point too. We just gotta trust her.”

“She’s a just a girl.” Angie’s uncle shakes his head. “What could she possibly have on her mind?”

Angie sits back and exhales smoke. She feels like a dragon, curled around a secret she can’t share.

-

When she returns home, the apartment is empty. Angie doesn’t know why she expected any differently. Peggy will be gone for hours, disappeared on one of her nondescript missions that Angie hates.

Mr. Jarvis follows her up, politely holding the door for her at the landing and stepping into the apartment first and remarking that Peggy wasn’t back yet. Angie coulda told him that.

“You got any idea where she went? She said something ‘bout some telegrams?”

He plunges his hands into his pockets. “Haven’t the faintest. This is in her nature, though.” His shoulders sag. “She’s looking into something for your uncle?”

“Yeah, my cousin Gilly’s wife and kid are missin’.” Angie shakes her head. “It’s a mess. I can’t get a straight answer outta anyone about why. Though, the more I hear, the more it sounds like she jus’ got tired of ‘im and my Uncle and went down to her parents across the river. If they’re going toe to toe with the Irish over union stuff, I don’t blame ‘er. That’s a mess she doesn’t deserve. Although those telegrams…”

They’re the sticking point. What do they mean? Peggy had gone all strange after hearing about them. Angie rubs at her temples. This whole situation is a mess.

He’s quiet for a long time. Angie can see the little gears working in his head, easily slotting pieces into place that weren’t there before. She knows she’s just some girl from the wrong side of the river, and that she’s somehow landed this amazing gal through sheer persistence of will. She doesn’t deserve Peggy. She doesn’t deserve this life she’s stumbled into.

“She’s doing this for you.”

“As a favor, yeah.” Angie bends to undo her shoes. Her feet ache and she hasn’t had enough sleep. She was hoping, with Peggy back from Europe and their evenings free thanks to her inexplicable illness and absence from the L&L, that they’d be able to go out, have dinner together. “One I don’t deserve.”

“Perhaps there’s more to it than just your cousin and his marital issues.” He suggests it mildly, pulling his gloves back out of his pocket and tugging them on. The picture-perfect disinterested Brit. She wonders if there’s something in the water that lets him affect nonchalance so easily. “She isn’t really the type to give up, once she gets on to something. She’ll find the girl, and your cousin’s wife.”

Angie thinks darkly of when Peggy helped her before, when it was all a ploy to get closer to Lorenzo’s goons and to grab a few of them for hustlin’. So help her if this is something like that. “We should do dinner, the four of us, sometime.” Angie smiles at him as he stands by the door, taken aback. She’s got no time for the niceties of Mr. Jarvis’s social standing compared to her own. They’re just people here. It isn’t like it is back across the ocean. “You, me, Pegs, Mrs. Jarvis.”

“Anna would like that,” He replies. “Perhaps – when this is done?”

Her head dips in agreement. “Drive safely.”

“I always do.” He slips from the door and leaves Angie alone in the empty apartment.

The coffee she had at Gilly’s will keep her up for a few hours still, so Angie collects her scripts and retreats into the study. She’s only got a month to learn them, and there’s sure to be new pages between now and then. She’s got to get a handle on the character before she can do anything else.

Once she has the character, the rest of the script will come easy. Angie can lose herself in a script and a character. It makes her forget anything else. They liked that about her on her first film, she could just play pool, set up the shots, show the Hollywood heartthrob they’d brought in to fake his best at pool against her that she really knew what she was doing.

In between takes he’d asked her, in that charming drawl that vanished as soon as he was speaking on camera, how she’d gotten so good at pool. Angie’d explained that her cousin was a hustler, but that she’d picked it up faster than him.

“Where did they find you?” He asked. He was looking at her awestruck, the way Angie sometimes looked at Peggy. “You’re the real McCoy, Angela. You don’t need them to use anything to sink the shots they want you to make for this.”

“I was auditioning for shows on Broadway, honestly. I can sing.” Angie shrugged. “They asked if I had any special talents and, well, I was real broke up about my cousin dyin’ because of a hustle gone wrong, so I said I could shoot pool. They wanted to see me do it.”

“You took a bunch of Broadway producers and directors to a pool hall?” he was laughing then, all smiles and charm. Angie liked him from the moment she met him. She was nervous, he’ was a big star and she was a nobody. But he saw the flowers Peggy sent her, the violets mixed in and he’d  _known_  and tapped his nose in acknowledgement. It wasn’t talked about, but there were always ways of telling. “You’re too much Anglea.”

“Even better. It was a gentleman’s club.” Angie winked at him and blushed so brightly she could see it through his stage makeup. “It’s a shame I gotta pretend to lose to you.”

He put up his hands. “I’m no good, doll. I’m pretty sure you could beat most anybody. I need all the help from the cameras and the magnetic tracks I can get.” He’d bumped her arm then. “That’s your legacy. No need to fake it for the cameras.”

And later, when Angie had to cry as his character walked away from her to go off to the blonde starlet, she did cry real tears. He’d hugged her afterward the day was finished, back in the dressing room she shared with three other minor characters. They were still shooting a scene.

“You got a girl?” he whispered into her hair.

“You got a boy?” she countered.

“Three fingered men never tell.” He laughed. It was all the acknowledgement people like them could have.

She’s dozing on the couch, caught between dream and memory, when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimes midnight. Angie shoves the scripts off of her chest and pads silently over to the door. It’s still locked. Peggy hasn’t come home.

The desk that dominates the far side of the room looms large in her vision. Peggy’s locked up secrets in there with a passcode she’s never bothered hiding from Angie. Is that implicit permission to poke around?

She leaves the scripts on an end table and crosses to the desk and tugs open the drawer that hides the safe. The combination is an easy one to guess if you know Peggy at all, but now, it seems like it’s an intrusion. Angie doesn’t want to pry, but Peggy’s not exactly been forthcomin’ with whatever it is that she’s up to.

A piece of paper flutters to the floor and Angie rolls her eyes. Peggy’s paranoid for a reason, this time. She bends and picks it up.

There’s fragment of Peggy’s writing, a place somewhere in a language that Angie cannot read. It’s probably a remnant from when Peggy went to Europe most recently, torn from a forgotten notebook to preserve the sanctity of her space.

Is it distrust that makes her do this when it’s only Angie rattlin’ around the apartment with her? Or is it something else.  Angie stares down at the piece of paper on the desk for a long time, caught in indecision. If she goes into the files, she can put them back. Peggy will probably never know the difference, but does she want to be that kind of girl? Peggy’s always been the secret keeper of the two of them. Well, Angie has secrets, but they’re not the sort that need sharin’.

If she does nothing, though, what does that mean? That she’s alright with Peggy not trusting her with the truth? Angie doesn’t want that either.

It’s a whim that has her reaching for the telephone over the combination dial. She punches in the number from memory, bypassing the operator and the central switchboard of Peggy’s office. The phone rings twice before it’s picked up. Angie leans against the desk, phone cradled to her ear. The piece of paper tumbles back to the floor.

“Carter.”

“Hey Pegs.” Angie’s voice feels scratchy and unused. She must have actually been asleep when the clock woke her. “Didn’t realize you were cleared to be back at work.”

Peggy lets out an exhausted-sounding sigh. “I’m not,” she confesses. “I had to get some things before I came home, and one thing has led to another…”

“And you’re sleeping on your office sofa?”

“I’m sorry for running out on you and your family, Angie.”

“Oh don’t worry, English. I just had to explain to them that you were really invested in gettin’ Ellie an’ Charlie back.” She doesn’t mean to sound annoyed, but she is, just a little bit.

“Angie…”

“If you didn’t want to do it, Pegs, you shoulda just said. I’m sure Uncle Artie knows some cops who’d look into it for him if he asked real nice.”

“I do want to do look into this, it just isn’t as simple as knocking on doors and rummaging through trash until we find what we’re looking for. There’s more to it than that.”

“Then tell me! Tell them, she’s Gilly’s kid.”

“I  _can’t_.” Peggy’s tone is so forceful that Angie pulls the telephone receiver away from her ear. “Angie, I wish I could, but I can’t. I couldn’t sit by and watch them treat you as they do —”

Something hardens in Angie’s stomach. She doesn’t want to have this argument. Peggy could never understand what it meant to have a family like Angie’s that loves and protects her despite her abnormal-ness. That broke their backs and starved so she could get better. She’s still broken, and they all know it, but it’s  _getting better_. “They’re family, Peggy. They can do what they want ‘cause at the end of the day they’re all I got.”

The hurt in Peggy’s voice is palpable. “Family doesn’t have to mean that.”

“Well it does for me.” Angie retorts. “Are you coming home?”

“I’m—” Another excuse. Today had started off so well, too.

“Well, when you’re finished disregarding orders.” Angie feels her shoulders sag. “Come home.”

“I promise.” It’s empty. “Maybe we could go to the park tomorrow.”

“It’s January.”

“Oh.”

“Goodnight, Peggy. Try to get some sleep on that god-awful sofa.” Angie lets the receiver drop back into its cradle. She’s fuming as she twists the dial on the safe, seven, four; she twists to the final digit and pulls the papers from their envelope, grateful that Peggy already opened it. The ‘eyes only’ stamp is glaring.

Swallowing, Angie crosses herself and opens the folder, and starts to read. Her eyes grow wider and wider as she sees acronyms she thought were made up, people who should have been  _dead_  and everywhere, the Star Spangled Man’s legacy is glaring up at her.

_Charlene Martinelli, nee Fredovich, Jewish, American by way of the Ukraine. Second generation. HYDRA._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I knew I couldn't stay away.


End file.
